


Netflix and Chill

by foolscapper



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Sastiel - Freeform, also friendship!!!, sweet sassy molassy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 04:57:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10236392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolscapper/pseuds/foolscapper
Summary: A collection of my shorter misc. Sastiel (or just Sam and Cas friendship) fanfic entries.





	1. Netflix and Chill

**Author's Note:**

> First short fic takes place post-Baby episode. Enjoy!

“I should have known by my last phone call with Dean, that you’d both be in such a miserable shape,” Castiel grumbles disapprovingly — he’s already carefully cured away the grimy blood from Dean’s face and sent him to bed with sloppy grilled cheeses heavy in his stomach, and that just leaves the long-limbed Winchester left with him under the single kitchen light. It’s dark out, but Castiel admittedly would not know as much. He’s barely looked out beyond the bunker.

Sam, as expected, just gets a humored sort of look on his face. Like he finds the angel’s impatience with the Winchesters and their dances with sharp objects — like _claws_ —  endearing. It makes it harder for Castiel to scold like he means it (and anyway, Castiel knows he’s only rescued from the same because he heals much more quickly than the brothers do). 

“We really did try not to get into too much trouble this time,” Sam replies in earnest, and Castiel just offers him the driest of unbelieving looks before he pulls his sleeve back by the cuff just slightly. Foolish hunters, always getting themselves into trouble with the nastier of Eve’s creations. He expects no less, and for some reason, that’s strangely soothing despite how restless he’s been. Some things never change.

“May I?”

“Of course.”

… Once again — some things never change. Castiel feels a cacophony of so many things, when Sam closes his eyes patiently and waits for the angel’s hand to touch to his forehead. To cure him, despite the times that his hands have done no such thing for the Winchester. May these hands never be used to hurt his friend ever again. He brushes the pads of his fingers gingerly over Sam’s brow and the light from his grace burrows and shines through the small, insignificant fissures in Sam’s damaged skin. Wounds mend, bruises de-bloom, and then it’s just him as usual. 

He feels like he should say something here. He feels weirdly grateful, suddenly. 

His hand just twitches away from Sam’s face instead, as the man opens his eyes. The glance he gives him is thanks enough, and he passes over the mug of hot cocoa that Dean had made in a delusional, eager and half-exhausted flurry in the kitchen… before being sent away to sleep like an over-excited child on a Sunday night, anyway. Sam sips his lukewarm beverage and Castiel clears his throat in an entirely too human way.

“Would you like to watch something? I’ve gotten a bit tired of watching procedural dramas. And — Dean had told me that you would love to  _‘Netflix and chill’_ tonight after your difficult day.”

Sam rather dramatically sprays a mouthful of cocoa all over the counter.


	2. There's Something in Your Hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A six-sentence prompt challenge; Sam, Dean, Cas, and feathers.
> 
> Original tumblr entry:
> 
> http://foolscapper.tumblr.com/post/120067460789/sentence-fic-theres-something-in-your-hair

“Huh?”

Sam stares at Dean, blinking away sleep and thinning his lips as innocently as possible. Still pretty out of it from the Trials, his hair is a wild mess on his head, and Dean slowly reaches over the table to pull a fluffy black feather out from the lower density of Sam’s mane ( _what the hell…?_ ).

He twirls it in his hand while he realizes the familiarity, glances up, and watches in complete silence as Castiel pads through the kitchen in a pair of Sam’s rolled-up pajamas with a tin can of coffee in his hand; the two stare at each other, Sam blinking blearily between them, and Castiel turns from his owl-eyed friend to pour him and Sam a mug.

“Tastes like molecules,” Castiel comments, and Dean thumps his head against the table.


	3. If Only

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "... You want me to lie to you?"
> 
> Warnings for Hell!Sam, violence/gore/etc. The usual terrible Hell stuff.

“… You want me to lie to you?”

Strange echo, sounds like Cas, trickles into view to sit in front of him as he huddles away in the corner. Blood drips down between his fingers, from his mouth, because his teeth are broken and his jaw is smashed, talking too hard, focus is split like the skin on his arms. Cas doesn’t notice, never notices. That’s okay. Sam’s eyes flutter open while Lucifer coils up like a snake, hissing and bickering with his brother; these are the good moments. Good, because he’s forgotten, and Sam would rather everyone forget him than their eye turn on him again. Sam releases his misshapen jaw, curls his fingers around the metal bars jutting from the walls.  
  
Cas. He’s sitting patiently, cross-legged, trench laid out behind him across jagged metal. It doesn’t cut at his feet, at his calves. Sam used to see Dean, but then Lucifer began to use Dean’s face, too… and now it’s hard to look at him and remember what Dean’s hands have done down here. Sam just nods. _Please, yes,_ he says without words. His tongue twitches, but his throat is wet and red. _Lying is good. Lie away, Cas._  
  
“Everything will be alright, Sam,” Castiel says quietly. He cocks his head in that way Sam remembers. Sam’s shoulders relax a few inches and he repeats it, but it doesn’t sound like anything. Just makes his teeth ache sharply, his crumpled jaw not listening. He says it in his head. Everything will be alright.  
  
“Does it help?” Castiel asks, furrowing his brow. “Talking.”  
  
A tear trickles, and Sam nods again, the bruises against his cheekbones and under his eyes darkened.   
  
_It does help. Helps a lot. I don’t know how much longer I can do this… Be… me._  
  
He sucks in a gurgled breath and heaves a sound close to a sob in return.   
  
_Cas, man, I don’t — This is forever. How’m I supposed to…?_  
  
“I wish I had answers. I’m just — you. I’m an old voice in your head, my friend.”  
  
Sam leans his head against the sharp wall, feeling the barb slice there, but it’s soothing to rest against something now. He closes his eyes. He’d smile if he could. ‘My friend’. That’s right… he has friends. Living, breathing friends. He has them, has Dean, and all those who’ve died? They’re in a good place. Better place. He reaches out and runs a shaking hand over Castiel’s. There’s no warmth, just coldness, because the Cage is always so cold. It feels good, to make believe that someone’s here. He imagines Castiel swooping in, grabbing him like he did Dean. Putting his hand print on him as he guided him to a happier ending. Dean would have him in a vice-grip, hug him like he’d just witnessed salvation, witnessed a kind God that mended instead of broke, in their lives.   
  
He envisions, maybe, Castiel carrying him up to Heaven. Seeing the fireworks, watching Dean from far away.  
  
Castiel’s vision flickers, a sad expression on his face. “It will all be okay.”  
  
It’s all in his mind, he knows. It’s all…   
  
He buries his broken face in his knees — the hallucination drifts like the last trail from a dying cigarette. Sam’s sorry, too. He’ll never not be sorry. He’ll also never realize that someone’s hand is on his shoulder, won’t even notice how his body is plucked away, ripped through the holes in the wall, left to be fragments of himself. Outside of the Cage, Castiel wills Sam’s corpse to mend back together. Sam can hear his voice distantly through the grating:  
  
“It will all be okay. Everything will be alright.”  
  
If only it weren’t all in his head, he thinks. _If only._


	4. Didneyland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is starting to wonder if bringing Cas to Disney World was such a good idea after all.
> 
> A six-sentence prompt challenge request. 
> 
> Original tumblr entry: http://foolscapper.tumblr.com/post/120205642249/sam-is-starting-to-wonder-if-bringing-cas-to

He loves Cas, really, but he’s worse than Dean when it comes to sapping the ‘magic’ out of this place (accidentally, of course, but still). 

He stares at every vendor with a complete frown (”this food doesn’t seem edible, Sam”), questions the shops (”is this not a lot of money for what is essentially a day of wearing these mouse ears…?”), keeps a perfectly straight face on the rides (”I’m the size of the Chrysler Building and I used to fly at hundreds of miles per hour.”), and… well, absently telling a kid that mermaids are actually extremely terrifying isn’t very good vacation planning.

Dean, of course, just laughs his freckles off at every awkward moment when he’s not playing macho hard ass, and Sam figures he might as well laugh, too, because it is kind of endearing and all. Then the light show comes on, and Castiel’s smiling up at it beside him and Dean, looking all but five for a weird moment when he says, “humanity is capable of truly inspiring sights”.

And maybe Sam thinks it was good, to bring Cas here after all.


	5. Have to Try

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after 10x22; Sam takes care of Cas after Dean beats him down. 
> 
> Warnings for slight blood and suicidal thoughts or ideation, lack of self-worth and depressing thoughts.

Sam rushes into a broken-down door only to find bits and pieces of what made up his brother on the floor — his weapons, his clothes, old records and pictures, like the one of Bobby and him and Dean that is slightly cracked beside his foot. The stench of gasoline deteriorates the sensation of ‘home’ that Sam had struggled to grasp before. He thinks of burning corpses and salt and last rites, thinks of Dean’s grinning young face from a long while back, smeared with ash and blood. ’ _Not bad, Sammy, right?’_ Sam’s books are sopping in corpse-burning juice. There’s some sort of lesson to be learned from it, like that he had deserved to burn instead of Charlie; to burn whole and alive, if it’ll appease. Wouldn’t be the first time he’s watched himself light up, or his world burst into flame.  
  
He snaps out of his despairing trance by Castiel, laid out with blood masking his face, a macabre art piece painted by Dean’s fists. And his stomach twists. For a moment he has the thought that Cas could be dead — but then the angel blinks, looking over to him, and Sam wastes no more time in rushing over to his friend’s side. It looks… pretty bad, but he finds at least some solace in the fact that Castiel is an angel. A full one, now, with his grace intact. “Cas. Cas, man, are you alright? Jesus. Oh, shit…”  
  
He runs a hand over his hair while Cas gets his bearings straight, slowly sitting up from where he’d lied. Once of Sam’s books on demonic possession is next to them, speared through by an angel blade; he doesn’t need to be told what happened. He has a good imagination. Cas shakes his head, replying in a fortunately sturdy and strong voice: “I’m sorry, Sam. I tried to hold him here, but… I didn’t want to strike him back. The Mark would have — reacted poorly to that.” The swelling in his face is already receding, but there’s still blood everywhere, and Sam pats the man’s shoulder.  
  
“It’s — It’s okay. I’m just glad you’re… Don’t move. I’m gonna…” He trails off as he leaves, returning with clean wipes. He doesn’t give Castiel much room to complain when he puts a heavy hand on top of his head and gingerly begins to wipe at both the blood and the wounds that have yet to heal. Castiel’s eyes flutter, sympathy weighing heavy in the blue there. Sam doesn’t realize his hands are shaking minutely until Cas’ hand reaches up to still them, quirking a brow at him.  
  
“Sam, _stop_. I don’t scar, and I won’t get an infection. It will be mostly healed within the next few minutes, so it’s not necessary to waste your time.”  
  
“I know,” Sam admits tiredly, bangs falling into his eyes as he retrieves the ice pack. He feels like his ribs are full of pleading regrets, full of apologies. He thinks about how Dean should have never dragged him out of that church. He should have went with Death; he’s known _that_ since Gadreel was cast out, really, but the reality is so much more palpable with one of his friends bleeding beside him. Kevin’s gone, Charlie’s gone, Castiel just got the shit beat out of him by his friend, and Dean’s — Dean’s changing all over again. Swallowing hard, he says, “I know, I know, I just — I’m _so_ sorry. This was all on _me_. I wasn’t — I wasn’t capable enough, I fucked up and I made Dean lose it. I should’ve protected Charlie; should’ve kept _you_ out of Dean’s way. I’m so sorry.”  
  
Castiel shakes his head. “Sam… Dean lost it because he has a bloodthirsty curse on his arm that makes him even  _more_ reckless and idiotic than usual. I suppose that’s a comical understatement, but… what he does _now_ rests on his shoulders; he had chosen the Mark despite the consequences. It doesn’t fall on yours. My safety certainly doesn’t. Charlie and I had made our choices. We chose our teams. We all lied together, worked on this together, even knowing the dangers.”  
  
Sam clutches the bloody wipe in his hand, silent. He’s not so sure he can agree with that. Cas just doesn't  _understand_ , didn’t really know that Sam’s hit the ground fumbling since Dean went to Hell, trying to do right by his brother and falling and tripping and skinning his knees. Sometimes it feels like hellfire’s licking at his heels, obligated to snap at him after Sam’s many failings. Now Dean hates him, wishes him dead, and Sam — Sam suddenly feels an icy cold grip his chest when he realizes he isn’t sure how much of that is the Mark. There’s a boy with shaggy brown hair and tears in his eyes to Sam’s left, dead and blank-eyed. There’s a blood stain still slowly expanding from the hole that burrows straight through his brain; he’s just a kid. Sam squeezes his eyes shut, head throbbing.   
  
“It’s not enough. It’s never enough,” he says, “Tell me what I’m supposed to do… Tell me what he needs me to  _do_.”  
  
Castiel breathes out. “I don’t know.”  
  
“What should I do…? What am I supposed to do…?”  
  
Cas puts his hand on Sam’s arm, rubbing the tense spot there in the hopes that it helps. “I don’t know.”  
  
Sam gracelessly lets go of the guilt that stopped him from seeking comfort, slouching forward as Castiel accepts his surrender. The angel pats his back, letting him hook his chin over his shoulder and wrap his long arms around him. Sam doesn’t cry, though; sure, he’d like to, but he’s not sure he can allow such a luxury. It’s long enough that when he finally pulls back, the cuts on Cas’ face are mostly healed, though he’s ashamed to say he’d lost track of time and isn’t sure just how long his friend was willing to hang onto him here in this bloody, foul-smelling room. He rubs his face, helping a shaky Cas to his feet.  
  
“We need to… go. We need to do something.”  
  
“Yeah,” Cas replies, uncertain but willing. “We can try to find him. But, Sam… I don’t know that he’d listen to reason now, after what I saw today.”  
  
“I have to try,” Sam nearly whispers. “He’s my brother. I have to try.”   
  
He can’t just leave Dean alone in the dark with a nightmare leeching off his arm. He has to do something. Even if it puts him on the pyre next. At least he could say he’d have it coming to him.

But… But at least he’s got Cas.

It’s better than being alone again.


	6. Abomination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Current Sam and Castiel actually talk about (however awkwardly you want) how Cas used to view Sam as an abomination."
> 
> They do, and it's not too bad. (Takes place after Gadreel is expelled in Season 9.)

“So, wait — you saw an actual Nephilim?”

Sam leans in close, beer hanging in his hand and legs curled around the back of the old bunker chair he’d planted himself in. Nesting or sprawling or whatever it is, he finds more and more lately that he’s never quite sure what to do with his body — just that he has to throw those lanky limbs somewhere to prove that he can, that this body is his and all his, that it moves to his thoughts and no one else’s. Not anymore. He’s tried not to think about it, how Dean had walked away and drove off into the rain-drenched night, leaving Cas and Sam behind. He tries not to think about how not very long ago, he wasn’t his own person. That he had holes in his brains that Castiel had to heal, how cloudy the world had been  — numbed — until the angel’s restoring touch had mended his mind together and helped make everything luckily and _revoltingly_ real.

Cas, who is currently trying to keep Sam still like a fussing mom fixing her son’s hair, putting two fingertips to Sam’s forehead and slowly working on each little broken piece of the Winchester. Sam is partly afraid to ask what Cas sees in there; likely, nothing salvageable for a normal human being. He’s been sewn back together so often, he has a hard time believing there’s any normalcy in how his walking corpse functions anymore.

“You’re coming along well — and yes, I did… um.” He cuts himself off, shifting uncomfortably. Sam realizes maybe he hadn’t meant for his comments to launch into more back-story, because likely… well. Back-story meant regret. It’s hard to talk about some things. But before Sam could tell him it’d be okay to skip the college class Castiel continues on with, “Metatron had told me that the only way to… help fix heaven with the tablets would be to kill a nephilim; we found one. The last of its kind, so I was told.”

“… Sounds like a lonely existence,” Sam replies, swishing the remains of his beer in circles. “I mean… To feel like there’s nobody like you. I couldn’t imagine being the only human alive.” He supposes Dean might have felt that way — in some way, shape, or form — in Purgatory. But the thought of Dean reminds him of Gadreel’s hands around his throat and he shudders.

“Well.” Cas sits down at the table, eyes closed in thought. “Nephilim are abominations. Neither human nor angel. It’s better that there are none that followed.”

It’s not spoken in anger or disgust, but in a sort of blind honesty that makes Sam’s mouth feel dry. Even though he has a million thoughts running through his head, he can’t particularly settle on one for a long time. Eventually, though, he says in a low voice, “But that’s like me, isn’t it…?” Castiel’s face whips up in mild surprise, as Sam continues, “I haven’t been quite human for a long time, you know…? I’ve been hunted for what I was. And now I’ve been a little bit angel and a little bit human, too, I guess…”

The silence is surprisingly heavy, which is weird to Sam, because he doesn’t expect the level of discomfort Castiel seems to be in at the turn in topic.  He’s even more surprised when Castiel shakes his head and says, “No. No, I’m… I’m sorry, Sam. That isn’t what I was trying to say; it’s not… You are not an abomination.”

Sam snorts. He’s pretty sure if he hadn’t already had three beers, he would have kept the noise to himself. But it spurs Castiel on to lean in closer, blue eyes intense and focused. “It wasn’t a joke, Sam. You’re not. What I had said all those years ago… I was deluded. I was a foolish and simple creature, even in all my years in existence.”

Sam’s heart feels heavy. Swells up. He should really not drink; he’s a lightweight.

“Cas, you don’t have to play nice because we’re friends now, you know? I mean, hell, look at me now. I just spent the last few months getting my brains prodded by an angel. I’m kind of a freak.”

“This isn’t playing; this is no game. I was wrong.” Cas leans back in his chest, hands laced together as he contemplates the past. Or at least, that’s what Sam pictures him to be doing. “Nothing is simple in this world. I know that now. I mean… I’ve crossed the line between angel and human myself.” He bites his lip. A human-like motion, useless other than to stave off restlessness. “I suppose… I suppose I have no room to call that girl anything, looking at myself. To call her that when I’ve hurt so many more people than her in my lifetime… I’m ashamed, now that I’ve put it into perspective.”

Sam taps his knees, and they’re silent for a long moment.

“… You’re not an abomination to me,” Sam finally says.

Cas smiles thinly. “Well… You’ve always seen a better side to me.”

Sam chokes on a swig of his drink, red face turning redder. Cas just reaches for Sam’s beer, despite no longer being able to keep a simple buzz, looking very content with himself as he takes a long drink.


End file.
